Bowl of Baker's Dry Ingredients rests on the counter, a small porcelain bowl chipped at the rim, the glaze catching the light like fine dust around a hearth. The contents form a pale, grainy cloud when disturbed: flour as soft as new snowfall, a kiss of cornmeal for bite, tiny flecks of salt that wink like mineral sand, a blush of dried yeast waiting for warmth, and a stray almond crumb that smells faintly of sweet mornings. The bowl wears a keeper’s mark—a curling sigil etched into the glaze long ago by a guild scribe who swore this blend kept kitchens calm in times of drought. When the light hits just right, you can see the powder halo rise and settle again, as if the ingredients themselves are listening for a baker’s call. There’s lore woven into its glaze, too. Rumor says the bowl was traded through a string of hands from a caravan of street bakers who fed a starving district after a long siege, each generation adding a pinch of its own memory to the mix. Some nights, if you lean close, you can almost hear the baker’s soft whistle—an old tune that calls forth golden crusts and warm kitchens even when the wind rattles the shutters. In the stories, the dry ingredients never complained about hard nights; they simply waited for someone to add water, patience, and a little heat, becoming nourishment that carried more than calories. In gameplay, the bowl isn’t simply a decorative relic. It’s a craft staple that unlocks a lineage of dishes when combined with other ingredients at a campfire or stove. Cooking with Bowl of Baker's Dry Ingredients yields breads and pastries that grant temporary buffs—steady stamina, a steadier hand, a boost to concentration—enabling explorers to push through rough terrain, or cooks to feed a weary squad before a long march. It’s the kind of item you treasure not for its sparkle but for its reliability: repeatable, predictable, and deeply satisfying. Players stumble upon it in markets, in abandoned kitchens, or as a reward from traveling vendors who value the old recipes as much as the new. Markets, of course, shape a different kind of story. In the Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans swap stories and goods as much as copper, the Bowl of Baker's Dry Ingredients can swing with the tides of seasonality and demand. Vendors price it with the weather in mind: a lean harvest nudges the cost up, a bountiful one lowers it, and the whisper of a festival dowries a slightly sweeter tag. Traders haggle with a calm confidence, eyes on the horizon where future loaves rise. I watched a courier trade two copper for a handful, then half a crown of spice as a garnish—the delicate economics that makes a simple bowl feel like an old friend who travels from village to village, always returning with a new tale to tell. So the bowl sits, a quiet conduit between memory and meal, between a baker’s dream and a traveler’s hunger. It’s ordinary in appearance, extraordinary in use, a small relic whose purpose remains as steadfast as the crust that forms around a perfect loaf.